


if thorin oakenshield gives his word

by ragesyndrome



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: ?????, Angst, Canon Compliant, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mostly Dialogue, basically a heavy conversation with longing gazes, basically canon, i guess, im the worst at tagging sorry, kili isnt injured tho, literally the only point of this was that bilbo fucking believes in thorin so much and it kills me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-27
Updated: 2016-10-27
Packaged: 2018-08-27 06:58:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8391718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ragesyndrome/pseuds/ragesyndrome
Summary: Bilbo vouched for Thorin in front of all of Laketown, and Thorin doesn't know what to make of that. They both suck at communicating.





	

“I’m not sure you know the definition of merrymaking, Thorin.”

  
They’re at at inn close to the Master’s house and the Company is loud and boisterous at the bar, unable to contain their joy as they drink and feast just under the shadow of the mountain.

  
There are songs being sung, and plenty of coin making the rounds, and the general stink of fish and alcohol, but that’s to be expected. And Bilbo would be having a lovely time, quietly tucking into a roasted trout and listening to Fili’s jokes, were it not for the literal storm cloud leaning against the wall.

  
Thorin sits with his ill-fitted but dry clothes bundled around him like armor and his eyes are horridly tired, and Bilbo understands. He’s weary to his bones himself after Mirkwood, after sneaking around tunnels like the creature he’d stolen his magic Ring from, kept awake in late hours only by paranoia of being caught. He understands, but he also knows how to appreciate a hot meal and a night’s rest when it’s offered, and he thinks it doesn’t do Thorin any good to be aloof at the moment.

  
Thorin looks at him, and doesn’t quite manage to say anything, and Bilbo hovers, beginning to rather wish he’d said nothing at all. Then Thorin motions quickly to Dwalin, who seems to always be on the alert for such insignificant gestures, and Bilbo barely hears Thorin murmur, “Watch the others for a moment?” Dwalin sets down his ale and crosses his arms duteously, as Thorin rises, gesturing Bilbo to follow. Startled, Bilbo goes without question.

  
They’re down the hallway now, and Thorin checks about him at least half a dozen times, but they appear to be well enough alone.

  
Bilbo, for the life of him, cannot predict what’s got Thorin acting this way, and so asks, “What’s going on?”

  
“Earlier, when we… when you vouched for me…” Thorin begins, all hesitance.

  
A pause, an achingly long pause, wherein Bilbo wonders whether Thorin plans to ever speak again.

  
“... Yes?”

  
“I don’t know how to… No one else spoke up for me then.”

  
“Oh. Well.”

  
Thorin rushes now, “The quest would have been forfeit then… would have been, many times over, were it not for you. You’ve saved me from Azog and from… the Elves, and again here in Laketown, and you. You spoke so certainly of my honour, as if…. well, as if you believed yourself.”

  
Bilbo starts at that. “Ah, um, well yes, of course?” and it comes out like a question, all wrong.

  
They’re far enough away from the crowds that, as Thorin leans away into the wall, his stony facade begins to crumble with a bodily groan, as if he’s willed himself to simply survive countless hells and this, _this_ conversation is going to be what does him in.

  
Really, he might consider drinking a hot cup of tea once in a while, Bilbo thinks, but Thorin speaks before Bilbo can make the suggestion.

  
“I cannot thank you enough for your words, Master Baggins, but I… I fear your loyalty may be misguided.”

  
“Hmm?” prods Bilbo, dreading what’s to come. Hands wrung with nothing useful to do.

  
Blue eyes meet him, wrought with what can only be sheer terror, a fear they certainly didn’t reveal in the face of trolls and giant spiders, nor even the monstrosity astride a white warg.

  
“You have proven, ah, invaluable on this quest… and all I’ve repaid you with is disrespect…”

  
Bilbo waves a hand in a dismissive gesture, turning pink to the pointed tips of his ears. “Goodness, Thorin, we’ve been over this, haven’t we? It’s in the past, you know that.”

  
Looking no more relieved, Thorin is slow to respond. “I… I know how the stories sound, Master Burglar, and that forgiving my rudeness might seem natural when you believe the, ah, _fairy tales_ that have been spun, but, I’m not like you, I’m not the hero you’ve painted me as.”

  
Something flares hot and quick in Bilbo’s chest, something he’d call _irritation_ but by god he has known irritation and this is nothing like Overlithe with the Sackville-Bagginses. “No, no, no, Thorin,” he begins, stuttering, stumbling without the eloquence he so dearly wishes he could muster. “You’re - you know you’re not such a profound mystery as that, or some character of an old legend, I _know_ you... I, well, I’m not a _child_ -”

  
“I know that,” says Thorin quickly, all but physically backing away, and Bilbo can’t have that.

  
“-No, listen, by Eru, I’m not _naive_ , and I certainly don’t give my word lightly, and I’m no quicker to trust than you.” It’s all Bilbo can do to keep barreling through until he understands what he’s even hoping to say. “So when I say that _I know you_ , I’m not talking about the legends one hears, I’m not - I’m not talking about the great King Under the Mountain, or the prince who picked up an oak branch and stood against Azog the Defiler. I, well, it’s been hard to be on this journey and _not_ come to have a certain respect for you, that really has little to do with all the titles and, and the fairy tales, as you call them... it’s just _you_.”

  
Bilbo stops himself short, inhaling quickly. Goodness, he’d never meant to say so much, he’s not certain Thorin has ever heard him speak for that long at once, damn his Hobbity babbling.

  
Thorin tilts his head, intrigued, and there is something too intense and beguiling in his eyes that Bilbo can’t hold his gaze, focuses instead on the way his braids slide slowly forward from his broad shoulders. Goodness. It’s been quiet for a long, long moment.

  
“You seem ever determined to find the best in those who don’t deserve it,” says Thorin, breaking the lull.

  
“Well you see it’s not really a question of _deserving_ , but,” oh, the flaring again, “you know what, yes, I have seen the best of you!” Time to clamp his mouth shut, racing toward boundaries he should very much heed, but he can’t help himself. “I’ve seen what you do and it’s no use pretending that I don’t know who you are, I don’t know why you insist otherwise!”

  
“Bilbo…”

  
He blinks upon hearing that name on Thorin’s tongue, new and out of place there but also feeling natural somehow. It’s then that Bilbo finally spots it, finally recognizes that look in Thorin’s eyes for what it is, those blue eyes tender and mouth gone slack with softness but, etched into his features behind that, is still the disbelief. The sheer inability to accept genuine praise, it’s all over Thorin’s face and it’s crawling under Bilbo’s skin, an itch he can’t get at, because honestly, _surely_ Thorin must know by now…? But right there he can see it. Thorin doesn’t know at all.

  
As if dunked in the icy river they’d taken out of Mirkwood, the flames in Bilbo’s chest sputter out. “I mean it,” he says, not quite intending his voice to have gone so soft but he hopes there’s enough conviction in it nonetheless. “Everything I said before the Master and all of Laketown. Believe me.”

  
And when that doesn’t dispel the awful dubiety in Thorin’s eyes, Bilbo finds himself reaching forward, hands stretching up, palms finding cheeks to touch and willing all of his warmth and, _damn_ it, affection, to somehow flow from him through their contact. Absolutely _anything_ , just for Thorin to know that this, whatever _this_ is, it’s real.

  
Breathless, Thorin’s face opens up. Bilbo sees the exact moment that he starts to believe and oh, it’s a stunning sight, blinding even, enough that Bilbo forgets to be embarrassed about his own gall. If Thorin just believes in himself for even a moment, then all propriety be damned, nothing else matters.

  
“Please believe me,” he murmurs again. Every stone wall is crashing down in Thorin’s eyes, opening up into old and raw foundations, naked and vulnerable, and Bilbo loves it, loves him, loves Thorin achingly.

  
And there’s the truth of it, isn’t it? He’ll do this over and over and quite possibly never truly understand why it’s so hard for Thorin to believe that he’s _worth_ believing in, but Bilbo knows he’ll never stop.

**Author's Note:**

> Writing this was entirely an accident and I'm amazed that it's gotten even a little bit of attention, thank you so so much darlings.


End file.
